They’re talking about Boiler Room 6. Only thin veils of vapor trail out from the closest smokestack, the chimney for Boiler Rooms 5 and 6. The one behind it still vigorously puffs away. I push aside thoughts of Drummer.
A walkway hung with lifesavers wings out from the navigating bridge, blocking access to the front rail and thus our view of the forward decks. Even I cannot bring myself to breach the command center. All our fates depend on those officers doing their jobs.
Bo points to a narrow staircase cut into the floor, surrounded by a bulwark to prevent accidental falls down the hole. “Where do these stairs lead?”
“What the devil are you two doing here?” An officer emerges from the bridge. “This is off-limits! Move along!” He shoos us away, nearly clipping Bo on the shoulder.
As we retrace our steps past the officers’ quarters, Bo halts abruptly and tweaks his head toward a ladder attached to the deckhouse. “Maybe the view is good up there.”
I climb first, and Bo brings up the rear. Once on the roof,we skirt around the first smokestack, where two more collapsibles, one on each side, wait like giant sleeping turtles.
Whose idea was it to store boats on the roof? They look heavy and will probably throw out someone’s back when they’re lifted over the safety rails and lowered onto the Boat Deck.
Past the collapsibles, we creep onto an unrailed stretch of roof that covers the navigating bridge. Standing there, on the head of the whale, the bowing of the ship is unmistakable, with a slight list to starboard.
My breath jams in my throat. When the ship founders, there won’t be enough room for the third class on the lifeboats. We’ll be the last in line. And that water looks cold enough to freeze at the touch.
Feeling me tremble, Bo slips an arm around my shoulders. Without that anchor, I might blow away, as flimsy as a cigarette flicked on the wind.
Focusing on the decks below, I stare hard for our lads. Both the well deck and the forecastle crawl with passengers, but no one stays in one place for long. I rub my eyes, wishing Wink and Olly weren’t so spindly.
“There!” Bo points.
Two small figures have emerged from a staircase. A snippet of orange fabric catches my eye. It’s Wink, his orange kerchief a tiny flame in the dark.
“Wink!” we call together.
The lads glance up at us. Bo motions for them to stay put. He points to himself, and then back to them, communicating wordlessly,I will come get you.
Olly and Wink both give the thumbs-up sign.
I follow Bo back to the ladder, my feet lighter. Minutes later, he holds the door to the deckhouse open for me. Inside, a deadly warmth cradles me, as treacherous as a fog of opium. The thick oriental rugs grab at my feet, urging me to stay.
Too many people linger inside, the goats. Can’t they see the angle of the floor? This gilded whale is too heavy to float much longer. Or maybe they’re counting down to their fates. I want to rail at them not to give up, but I have a few other fates to worry about first.
“The lifeboats take women and children only,” Bo says. He’s back to English now. “That’s you and the kumquats. But you must convince the crew you are a girl.”
“Convince them? You mean flash my beacons?”
A blush creeps around his stubble. “No, but you look nice in dresses.”
“Go’an, you charmer.” The flirting eases my anxiety for a moment. But then the lights flicker again, and a collective scream strikes my heart like a flight of arrows.
Bo grabs my arm. “Remember the woman on E-Deck who dropped her suitcase? There must be many clothes around.”
I didn’t lock Mrs. Sloane’s room, and the Cabbage Patch is loads closer than hiking back to E-Deck. “Follow me.”
We dash down the tidal-wave staircase. On the carved wall of the first landing, the golden clock reads 12:25. Somehow we’ve slipped into the next day. Our show on the rails feels like a distant dream whose edges have frayed, unraveling thread by thread.
Stragglers move about, most headed up the stairs. A few haven’t made up their minds. A man in a tuxedo comforts a woman clinging to the golden cherub.
“Saint Christopher,” she wails. “Please, Saint Christopher!”
We reach the spacious Entrance Hall on B-Deck, where another cherub offers empty consolation. I’m surprised to see people resting on the embroidered settees.
“Get yourself into a lifeboat,” I urge. “There’s not much time.”
They throw reproachful glances our way. It occurs to me that, for the first time, my looking more like Ba than Mum may hurt them more than me.
